


you're all already dead

by Ibbonray



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alcoholism, Angst, Angst angst angst angst angst, Bryan's dead and Miller is just broken, Existential Crisis, Honestly don't even read this it's awful, M/M, Miller the angst king, Nihilism, Pining, Post-Season/Series 03, Suicidal Thoughts, Tragedy, minty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 14:57:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7645666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbonray/pseuds/Ibbonray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm sorry Bryan's gone, but we've all lost someone."</p><p>Miller laughs. His eyes are bleary, focused on Monty's skinny wrists. "That's right! You're a murderer too."</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're all already dead

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this thing at three AM to balance out the humor in my previous Minty fic. "Mistletoad" isn't done yet, but I needed a distraction. Introducing: 100% depressing crap! I recommend turning back now.
> 
> Working title: "Miller the angst king." Real title: song quote from "Heavy Dirty Soul" by twenty one pilots. 
> 
> Premise: You know how Bryan got injured during Perverse Instantiation P2? Wound was infected, Abby cut out the infection, but didn't realize he was poisoned until it was too late. (I love Bryan, but also, I love existential crises. So here you go.)
> 
> Edits: Forgot Kane was the one who shot Bryan. No matter, just a bit of tweaking. The story's far-fetched anyway.

It’s almost ridiculous.

He’s been on the ground for- what? Four, five months? And in this world of survival there is an unspoken rule that important people stay alive. (A conditional rule, of course. The Commander? She’s dead. She died for a reason, though, because a twist of fate wanted Clarke to destroy the world again.)

But here’s the thing. In a world where important people live, is it really important that _anyone_ lives? The world is gonna end in six months, and nothing can stop that. Important people might say differently. They have _hope_. Miller doesn’t. His life is a terminal battle of strength and loyalty, destined to end soon enough. Preferably sooner.

It’s almost ridiculous.

They’re living in a- a what? An alliance, now? Probably could have rectified that sooner, could have stopped all this pain. Six months. Does Miller really want to survive for six more months? Why not just die now? Doesn’t sound too awful. That’s what Bryan did.

Bryan up and kicked the bucket. It’s almost ridiculous.

Fuck, and he should have done something. Miller should have- should have done something. Found an antidote, sooner. Cut out the infection sooner. God _damn_ it! You’re not supposed to die from a fucking bullet to the leg when there’s a doctor around. But no, Abby Griffin had her arms wrapped around her daughter and complete disregard for Bryan’s pain. At least she cut out the infection. Clean removal. Said it was fine.

Said- no, she never said anything about the poison, didn’t know about Finn's sharp situation all those months ago. And it might not have been a Grounder weapon- Kane poisoned the bullets, somehow, there shouldn't have been any way for him to poison the bullets- but Miller should have known. Miller should have sprinted to Polis, should have retrieved the antidote, should have... (it was going to be too late anyway). But he _could_  have acted sooner. Could have done something.

Everyone dies. Clarke has killed Miller. She's killed everyone on earth. Think about it: A.L.I.E. surviving... would it have been so awful? Bryan wouldn’t be dead in the City of Light. Bryan survived the landing and Ice Nation and the reign of artificial intelligence, but he’s dead now. Fucking dead now. It’s pathetic. Fuck. Miller needs a drink.

He’s turning into Jasper. He _is_ Jasper, maybe, but what does it matter? Bryan doesn’t care: he’s dead. And Miller is tired of always being the loyal one, being there for his friends, backing them with a gun and a hammer and a rover serenade when- when there’s nobody to sing him lullabies in the evening. Not anymore. (He misses his mother. Miller is a no-good thief that is too self-centered to protect his boyfriend’s life, even when his boyfriend was the last tether to be had.)

Bryan died from a poisoned bullet, and Miller is just _done_. He never was an important person. He happens to be living on this earth for no reason at all. Biding his time. Six more months.

It’s almost ridiculous.

“What’re you doing in here, Miller?” asks the boy he (probably) deserves. Miller didn’t deserve Monty at the Dropship, or the mountain, or the rover. But somewhere along the line, Monty killed his mother twice and hopped aboard the sin mobile. Miller didn’t get the antidote fast enough. They deserve each other. They all deserve each other, now. This earth ensures that nobody lives without killing.

Clarke’s the most alive; she’s killed the most of any of them; she’s the most important. Probably going to cheat her way out of the six months. Sinners live in a never-ending loop.

“Fuck off.”

Everything he says these days is in monotone. Careless. Miller didn’t give a damn in the Ark, either, but back then it was _hilarious._ This? This is critical nihilism. Man versus nature, man versus self.

“No,” Monty says. “No, you’re not doing this. You’re not going all Jasper on me, Nate, or I swear-“

“Don’t call me that.” Bryan called him that. Bryan is dead.

Monty snaps his mouth shut. His dark hair is in disarray, and Miller’s pupils are probably betraying him right now, but he doesn’t care. Monty has always been an intangible, nagging thing, constantly there, never important enough. An important man- sure- but there was Bryan. And Bryan is dead. So, Miller would have Monty now. No doubt, rapid heartbeat, guilt and all. He would have Monty. But Monty’s in _love,_ and Miller’s an awful person, and they’re all gonna die in six months.

Careless Miller. He hates himself anyway, and what better reason to increase that hate than to indulge his attraction toward a taken man? To hell with it, he says. To hell with it. Burn a pathway of broken hearts and nihilism through a radiation-soaked world.

He tries to take a swig of moonshine, but the bottle is being snatched from his hands. Cheers. This is what Miller deserves, maybe, for trying to save his people and killing his boyfriend in the process. Did they really save anyone? Skaikru isn’t the protagonist. Miler isn’t the good guy- nobody is the good guy- Monty is the worst guy in the whole fucking universe for taking Miller’s alcohol.

“Give it back.”

“No,” Monty says. “Not until you get up and do something worthwhile. Alcoholism is beneath you, Na-Miller.”

“Murder isn’t.”

“I’m sorry Bryan’s gone, but we’ve all lost someone. Get your head out of your ass and face the goddamn world.”

Miller laughs. His eyes are bleary, focused on Monty’s skinny wrists. “That’s right! You’re a murderer too.” (Monty recoils, but he doesn’t care anymore. He doesn’t care that Jasper hurt Monty, that he is Jasper, that he hurts Monty. Monty has hurt him. Monty has hurt him with a girl as sweet as chocolate cake.)

“And I get up every day to self-loathing. But there’s still something to live for.”

“We’re all gonna die in six months,” he says. “I’m speeding up the process. Gimme back my alcohol.”

Monty crouches down. Slaps him, hard. It stings, but external pain can’t be considered pain anymore. “Not before you wake up and stop with all your suicidal shit. It’s pathetic. You’re more pathetic than Jasper.”

Miller’s vision clears. “I’ve got nothing to live for.”

“The hell you don’t! You’ve got your dad, Miller. Your dad is worried _sick_ about you. Bellamy is even worse. There’s- there’s- you have _me!_ ” Monty yells, his words like clipped wings, and Miller is going to die from laughter. Cynical. Always cynical.

“ _You_ ,” he says. “Oh, that’s rich. Which version of _you_ do I have? The ‘you’ who is a murderer? No, you haven’t killed me yet, what am I thinking… How about the ‘you’ who has sex with Harper all the livelong day? Wait, that’s right. I _don’t_ have you. She does.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Monty’s eyes are narrowed, but Miller is done. With this conversation, with living on the ground, with spelling his emotions out in twisted smiles and sardonic laughter.

He knows Harper. He knows she doesn’t deserve Monty: she’s too good. She’s a fucking angel and he hates her now because- because Harper is _happy._ And Miller will never erase the image of Bryan seizing on the table. Abby’s dull eyes telling him to stop screaming (“this happens all the time, you’ll wake up the other patients”). Abby is a robot. She tells people she understands their pain when really, her worst pain has been allowing her husband to get floated.

A murderer, but not enough of one. Miller thinks that Abby isn’t important enough to be alive, anymore.

To be fair? Neither is he. Neither is Harper. Neither is Jasper. They’re all wasting space, Jasper and Miller with their alcoholism and Harper with her genuine giggles. Honestly. How can somebody giggle in a world like this? Fox is dead. Bryan is dead. Everyone is gonna fucking die in _six months_ and there will be nothing left to remember and no point to humanity's existence.

The only hope is… hope. Hope that Monty will fix the situation, just like he can do anything. Make moonshine, fix a radio, murder a civilization, murder his mother. Walk away with a girlfriend and some semblance of happiness. And hope.

Miller used to have hope. Remember that? A house on a lake, fields of corn, chickens. (“We’ll grow old.”)

Bryan is never going to be old.

Miller is old from alcohol and grief.  

He never explains to Monty what "that" is supposed to mean. Instead, he sits there in his tent, stuck in a loop of condescending messages and hopelessness. Monty called him suicidal. Is Miller suicidal?

“I’m not,” he says. “Suicidal. I’m too much of a coward. Gonna wait until my six months are up.”

Monty sighs, fiddling with the lid on the bottle of moonshine, refusing to drink. “We’ll have more than six months, Nate. We’ll have the rest of-“

“First of all, _don’t call me that._ Second of all, once the six months are up, I’ll either die from radiation or die from my own hand. So maybe I’m suicidal. Yeah. But I’m also unimportant.”

“No, you’re important, you’re important-“

“If I were important, Green, you’d have said something in that mountain. But you had Harper to protect from the scary universe while she held your ha-“

“Shut up, Miller, you had a boyfriend and you were waiti-“

“But you didn’t know I had a boyfriend-“

“And? And, what? I’d have kissed you and you would have kissed me back? Because that’s almost as bad as Finn.”

Miller stops. Stares. Leers, suddenly, his mouth all twisted and eyes aflame. “Nah,” he says lowly. “I’m worse than Finn.”

And here’s the thing. If he hadn’t told Monty this, he would have been so much _better_ than Finn, because self-control is prized in a world of numerous cheaters. Yet at the same time, he would still be an awful person, for thought is sin and he cannot deny thinking of Monty. Constantly. Monty is this  _temptation_ , a distraction from his love for Bryan. And Miller loved Bryan. He loved Bryan, and he couldn’t love Monty, and he doesn’t know if he can love Monty anymore. They’re both murderers. His life is trickling out into the sand.

Monty does not love him back. He thinks.

“Then so am I,” says Monty.

And kisses him. Miller can taste something sweet, probably Harper. Something else- the same taste that’s lingering in his own mouth. Moonshine. Something else- something Miller cannot place. Monty. Irreplaceable.

Miller isn’t sure what to think. Bryan is dead (he doesn’t care). Homicide does something to the human mind, steels it, gives it a psychopathic resolve and the instinct for survival. But knowing there’s a death deadline erases that instinct entirely. Everything is null and void, an empty carcass.

Monty pulls back. “Come face the world, Nate,” he says. Miller doesn’t correct him this time because Bryan doesn’t matter anymore. Love is death. Love dies with its prisoners.

It’s almost ridiculous.

“Go have sex with Harper,” Miller replies. (There is no trace of pain. His words are all monotonous.)

Monty stands. “I miss her, you know. My mother. Every fucking minute there’s guilt, and it won’t just wash away. But Harper needs me, so I’m there. And I need you. Please. _Please_ come outside, for me.”

He thinks for a while. Runs his hands over his face, thinks of the six more months, knowing that time always passes with ease. Leers again.

“Give me back the bottle.”

Bryan is dead and Miller is broken.

Monty tosses him the bottle, but Miller is too drunk to catch it. The thing shatters all over, shards sticking into Miller’s veined arms, and the pain is a nice change. A metaphor, maybe. And Monty doesn’t care. The boy is turning away and slipping outside of the tent, probably searching for Harper.

Miller is so fucking done.

(And tomorrow, he’ll cure his hangover with more moonshine, forgetting that Monty makes moonshine. Because moonshine makes him forget things. And tomorrow, Monty will return to the tent with condescending words. “Come face the world, Nate,” he will say, and Nate will drink so his sorrow will stay.)

It’s almost ridiculous.


End file.
